


Visitors (or, A Kurt Hummel Christmas Carol)

by dancewithme19



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancewithme19/pseuds/dancewithme19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a long time since Christmas has been anything more than an annoyance to Kurt Hummel. One Christmas Eve, on the verge of achieving his dreams, he receives a series of ghostly visitors who call into question the worth of his sacrifices. In other words, exactly what’s in the title. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_2023_

“Mr. Hummel?”

Kurt looks up, eyes sharp with annoyance at the interruption. It’s Krista, biting her lip, clutching at the folder in her arms like it’s in danger of falling. It’s hard to avoid rolling his eyes at her timidity, but he manages it.

“Yes?”

“Did you, um…did you have anything else for me? I was hoping I could get home before 7 today. My family’s in town, and – ”

“Did you send those sketches off, like I asked?”

“Yes, I did it right away.” She says it quickly, like the faster she talks, the more likely he is to believe her.

“Did you schedule that shoot with Mario?”

“For Tuesday of next week – it’s in the black book.”

“What about Vogue?”

She opens her mouth, pauses. Her eyes widen ever so slightly in what Kurt presumes is fear. His nostrils flare. She swallows.

“I tried. I really did, I left several messages, but I couldn’t get through. They kept telling me she was unavailable.”

Great. Wonderful. Just what he needs, today of all days.

“And you just rolled over and took it, did you? Jesus, Krista, where the hell is your spine?”

“They told me she would get back to us at her earliest convenience.” Her eyes have gone glassy and big, but, to her credit, she juts her chin out in what Kurt assumes is a subconscious attempt at defiance.

“Do you remember what I told you, Krista?”

“Of course.”

“Did I tell you to call Vogue and leave a message with one of Anna Wintour’s legion of assistants?”

“Um. No.”

“That’s right, I didn’t. I instructed you _very clearly_ not to give up until you’d spoken to the woman herself. The deadline is _Friday_.” He pauses here, waits for the gravitas of the situation to sink in. She swallows and nods, tight and quick. “I didn’t get where I am by waiting and hoping for people to see me, Krista. I got here by _demanding_ to be seen. If that’s not something you can do…”

He leaves it hanging with a shark-eyed smile, satisfied that he’s made his point.

“Of course, Mr. Hummel. Sir. I – I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble understanding why I want you to get back on the phone and _stop_ taking no for an answer.”

She bites her lip.

“Do you really think she’s still there?”

Kurt narrows his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“It’s just – it’s 5:30. On Christmas Eve.”

Kurt glances up at the clock he keeps on the wall by the door. So it is.

“You’d better hope that she is.”

Krista breathes in sharply and scurries back to her desk, folder pressed tight against her chest.

Kurt sighs. He really doesn’t want to fire her. He’d hate to have to train someone new. Again.

Concentration thoroughly broken, he stretches his arms above his head and gives in to the giant yawn that’s been tickling at his throat for what feels like hours.

It got dark at some point. The only light in the office comes from the lamp on the desk and the faint glow of electricity from the city around him. That never really goes away. He might be tempted to go home himself if it weren’t for the half-finished sketches littering his desk. As it is, he’s looking at another few hours at least.

He’s interrupted again when Krista comes back with red-rimmed eyes and a very straight back and tells him that Ms. Wintour has left the building for the duration of the holiday. She looks him in the eye and doesn’t cringe, but he can see the effort that it costs her. Kurt generously dismisses her with a stern warning to come in early on Boxing Day to make up for her error in judgment. She quickly agrees and practically flies through the halls toward her freedom. Kurt rubs at his temples in a useless attempt to stave off a headache and gets back to work.

It’s nearly 9 by the time he leaves. He’s the last one out, save for the security guard and the cleaning crew. He hears a “Merry Christmas” as he exits through the front doors, but he doesn’t turn around to acknowledge it. Christmas has long since stopped meaning anything to him at all.

He hails a cab and settles in to check his personal e-mail. The radio is playing some children’s choir singing “Silent Night,” and the cab driver is singing along, just off-key enough to be really annoying. Kurt lasts about 15 seconds.

“Can you please just turn that thing _off_?”

The driver makes a face at him but complies.

“You got something against Christmas music?”

“Besides the fact that it’s cheesier than my stepmother’s lasagna and pays tribute to a fairy tale that people only tend to believe in when it gives them a convenient excuse to be ignorant? Not a thing.”

The driver’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t respond. He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “Goddamn atheist.”

 _Damn right_ , Kurt thinks, but doesn’t say. _Proud to be_.

He can’t wait to get out of this cab and off of the streets, where the barren trees sparkle with pretty little white lights and the storefronts are dressed up with tableaux of snowy wonderlands and Santa Claus’ workshop. He can’t wait to curl up in front of his TV with a plate of re-heated Chinese leftovers and a cup of chamomile tea, curtains closed against the multi-colored lights strung up around apartment windows across the street.

In the meantime, he sighs and gets back to his phone.

He doesn’t expect anything new - he’s made himself perfectly clear to his family and his friends. Even Carole has given up this year. She sent him a card with a chatty note that didn’t even mention coming out to Ohio for the holiday. _We miss you_ , she said instead. _We hope to talk to you soon. You know you’re always welcome_. He could feel the resignation behind her words. He almost convinced himself it made him happy.

He has three new messages, as it turns out, only one of them spam. His heart gives a shudder when he sees who they’re from.

Rachel’s came an hour ago. Blaine’s, almost six. He opens Rachel’s first.

_Hello, Kurt,_

_Here’s a little something to put a holiday smile on your face! The sound quality is rather poor, unfortunately, but that’s to be expected. A recording is never an appropriate substitution for the real thing (you know where to find us, eight shows a week!)._

There’s a link, here, to a YouTube video. Kurt ignores it.

_I do hope that you’ll consider joining us tomorrow. There won’t be a huge crowd of us, just those of Jewish descent and the Christmas orphans, like Blaine. You’ll know plenty of people, I promise, and we’ve hired an accompanist to accommodate any impromptu performances that may arise._

_So bring a beverage of choice, your best holiday cheer, and the song in your heart, and we’ll (hopefully!) see you tomorrow!_

_Lots of Love, Rachel_

Kurt doesn’t delete the message, but he does close out of it without a second of lingering. Rachel should know him better than this. She used to, not that it ever stopped her. It’s ridiculous to believe for a second that he’s capable of bringing “holiday cheer” anywhere, much less to a room full of shiny, happy people who know him and look at him with pity practically seeping from their pores.

He doesn’t need anyone’s pity. He’s made it through more than any of them and come out on top. He’s Kurt Hummel, soon-to-be fashion superstar, feared and worshipped and completely self-made. He doesn’t need anyone, period.

He almost turns off his phone and stuffs it in his coat pocket to push it from his mind. His finger has gotten so far as to hover over the power button when his eye catches on that one last unread message. He can’t help himself. He clicks.

_Hi, Kurt,_

_First of all, it would be completely remiss of me not to congratulate you on that wonderful piece in last Sunday’s Times. It seems like only yesterday you were designing in the margins of your math homework and sewing your prom outfit on that old Singer in your bedroom.  Now, you’ve got Marion Cotillard singing your praises on the red carpet! I hope you know how happy I am for you (not that your success comes as any sort of surprise)._

_I completely understand that you’ve been busy – I know how hard you work! – but I hope that you’re at least planning to take Christmas Day off. Rachel and I are throwing a party for those of us without family in town to celebrate with this year, and I’m really hoping that you’ll come. It will be at Rachel’s place starting at 5, but you’re welcome anytime before or after. Please call if you have any questions or need directions (my number hasn’t changed)._

_If you have plans already or otherwise can’t make it, I’d love to catch up whenever you’re able. There’s a front row ticket with your name on it at the box office – just give me a head’s up and you’re in, any night of the week. We can go for a drink, after. Or we could just meet for lunch sometime, or coffee. Whatever you’d prefer._

_I still think of you as family, Kurt, and I don’t want us to drift any further apart._

_I hope to see you tomorrow!_

_Blaine_

Kurt lets out a breath that he didn’t know was building.

There’s a place in Kurt’s heart that’s still tender, and it’s signed all over with that name.

Blaine knows him so very well. He knows just what buttons to push to get exactly what he wants.

Well, not this time. Not anymore, and especially not on this day. Kurt Hummel is no one’s good deed. He pulls the shutters on that corner of his heart and abandons it to the dark. He jabs his finger viciously down on the power button.

They’ve pulled up to Kurt’s apartment by now. He shoves a few hastily-counted bills into the driver’s hand and rolls his eyes when the man smirks and wishes him a Merry Christmas. Kurt refrains from retorting with an ironic “Bah, Humbug,” but it’s a near miss.

The apartment is cold and dark when Kurt makes his way in. It’s quiet, too, after the bustle of the streets. He turns up the heat, turns on the lights, finds some mindless reality television for background noise. He changes into his sleep clothes, microwaves the last of the Kung Pao chicken, and starts water boiling for tea. He pulls a blanket over his legs and settles in for the marathon of classic Jersey Shore they’re showing on MTV. It’s soothing in a way that orange-skinned fashion disasters never ever should be. His cat, an old Siamese named Audrey, pads into the room and practically hurtles herself onto his lap, whiskers twitching as she noses at his plate. He shoves her aside and lets one hand linger to pet absently down her back as she purrs softly and flicks her tail against his elbow.

It’s a routine that works for him.

It hasn’t always been like this, but, all in all, he’s happier now. He tends not to think about the sacrifices he’s made to get to where he is, poised on the verge of true greatness. He has himself. That’s all that matters.

He’s so busy with this mental pep talk that it takes him longer than it should to notice.

He freezes, mid-chew, when he does.

There, in the background of a toothpaste commercial - one of the extras, Kurt could swear… In spite of himself, he can feel his heart drumming faster.

That man is the spitting image of his father.

He’s looking directly into the camera, into Kurt’s own eyes, one corner of his mouth tweaking up in a smile that Kurt knows as well as his mother’s perfume.

Kurt gasps. He blinks, like a reflex.

His father is gone.

Appetite suddenly vanished, Kurt sets his half-finished plate on the coffee table and lets Audrey go to town.

It’s got to be the Kung Pao.

He puts it forcibly out of his mind, shoves it away with all of the other thoughts and feelings and things he doesn’t want. Kurt Hummel is strong. Kurt Hummel is in control.

Kurt Hummel is not going crazy.

It happens again.

And again.

Kurt shuts off the television. He brings his now-empty plate to the sink and sets it down carefully. For once, he’s willing to let it sit until morning.

He rushes through his nighttime routine, eager to get to the end, the lovely part where he gets to swallow down a sleeping pill and say goodbye to the world for a well-deserved night of rest.

He goes out to the living room to turn off the lights and say goodnight to Audrey. He stops, frozen in place as something icy seems to crawl up his back.

The lights have all been dimmed, leaving the room in an eerie half-glow of warm lamplight.

Kurt doesn’t have a dimmer.

He checks the locks - just as bolted as they were before.

He marches calmly to each and every switch and turns it firmly off, leaving himself in a total darkness that absolutely does _not_ make him panic. He ignores the heavy thudding in his chest and walks rather than runs to his bedroom, where the light is still full and friendly. He locks the door behind him.

He breathes in, deeply, breathes out. He feels safe in here.

He decides to settle in for a bit of reading, just long enough to calm his foolishly beating heart. He picks up a recent issue of Marie Claire and tries to immerse himself in the stories told by color and texture and flow of fabric. He almost succeeds, too.

The lights flicker.

Once.

Two heartbeats. Three. Four.

Again.

One heartbeat.

Again.

Kurt moves to get up, get out of bed and turn off those obnoxious, malfunctioning lights once and for all, because he is scaring himself for no reason and the electric company is going to be getting an earful in the morning.

The TV flares to life in the living room. Just as quickly, it fades out.

The bedroom door knob rattles.

Kurt stills.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, voice loud and steady, thank god, because the last thing he needs is for some violent criminal to think he’s an easy target. He gropes around on his nightstand for something heavy and hard enough to cause a concussion. His lamp should do the trick.

The whole door rattles now, almost vibrating in its frame.

Kurt’s grip tightens.

The door stills.

Suddenly, improbably, a hand is reaching through. A silvery-white _translucent_ hand, and Kurt is pretty sure now that the mushrooms they use in the kitchens at _China Dream_ are actually of the magic variety, because _that’s the only thing that makes any kind of sense_ right now.

He can do nothing but stare as the rest of the arm makes it through, and then the other, and the legs and the body and the head, moving through the wood as if in slow motion.

God, it can’t be.

The figure stops at the foot of Kurt’s bed and smiles lopsidedly.

“Hey, kid,” it says.

It waits.

“Who - what are you?” This time, his voice is rough and shaky. He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing he thought makes any sense right now anyway.

“You should probably ask _who_ I was, when I was living. But then, I think you know.”

“ _Dad_?”

He looks the same, exactly the same as he did on the day that he died. Except, well, healthy, if you disregard that whole ghost thing. His face is full and smiling, his body whole. He’s wearing that stupid NYADA cap that he wore all the time, even after Kurt quit the theater scene and dedicated himself to his designs. Kurt used to hate it, told his dad it did nothing but remind him of the years and the _money_ he wasted on something that was never going to make him happy. His dad would chuckle and grip his fingers protectively around the bill.

“Hey,” he’d say. “I love this hat. It reminds me that there’s nothing you can’t do if you set your mind to it.”

He didn’t live long enough to see whether he was right. Kurt made sure that he was.

“You got it, kiddo.”

Kurt is torn between the instinct to throw himself at his father for a hug that he’s been missing for exactly five years, now, and the instinct to hide his head beneath the covers, stuff his fingers in his ears and sing as loud as he can until this whole ordeal is over. They end up at a stalemate, leaving him still and wide-eyed, sitting straight up in his bed and waiting for _something_ to happen.

“What - how - I don’t - ”

“I’m here to help you.”

“Are you - I mean, how are you _here_?”

“Turns out there’s something to all of that soul business, after all. This right here is what’s left when the body can’t take it anymore. I’m a spirit.”

“Wait, so they’re right? Those ignorant, Bible-thumping assholes who say that my biology is a sin, they’re all _right_?”

“Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

“But you just said - ”

“I told you, this is what happens when your body dies. That’s all I know. Honest. But I can tell you without a doubt that those assholes are _wrong_.”

Kurt takes a moment, takes that in.

“Does everyone become a spirit? Are there just, like, spirits floating around us all the time or do you go somewhere when you’re not, um, helping?”

“Not everyone sticks around. Those of us that do, well. We’re doomed to wander.”

“Like, as a punishment?”

He feels a flicker of anger light in his belly. His father was a good man. The best man, actually, that Kurt’s ever known.

“Not exactly.”

“Then _why_?”

“To finish the things that we left…unfinished.”

“What did you leave unfinished?”

His father, the _spirit_ of his father, levels him a look.

“Dad…I’m fine. I’m better than fine. Everything I’ve ever wanted is just within reach. If you’re being held back from something because of me, if you’re being _punished_ because of me - ”

“It’s my choice to be here, bud, so you can stop worrying.”

“Your choice? What would happen if you chose to…leave?”

The spirit smiles, eyes going far off and dreamy, an expression that’s foreign on his father’s face.

“The particles of my body, such as it is, would fly apart, one by one, and rejoin the world the way they’re supposed to. The way your mother did.”

His eyes snap back to Kurt’s, and suddenly he’s wry and gruff and familiar once more.

“I can’t leave until I know you’re okay.”

“Dad, of course I’m - ”

“I’ve been watching all along, you know, and tried to get through to you more times than I can count. But it ain’t that simple, apparently, because this is the first time in five years you’ve been able to see me. I don’t know why tonight, but I do know, Kurt, that you need me. No matter what you say. I can help, and I will. That much, I can do for you.”

“You don’t have to - ”

“Listen, Kurt. Just listen. The path you’re on is dangerous. I know you’re a big success, and you deserve it, but you’ve given up a lot to get it. Too much. I’ve watched you give away pieces of yourself for free, like they don’t matter. They _do_. If you take nothing else from tonight, take that. Do you remember what I told you, what was it, 11 years ago now, the night I told you about the cancer?”

Kurt blinks. His head is a mess right now, and it was an even bigger one back then, when his heart was tangled into the mix.

“I remember you told me I was going to kick ass at NYADA.”

The spirit guffaws

“Which you did.”

“Obviously.”

They smile together. Kurt feels a lump form at the core of his throat. This is something he hasn’t let himself miss.

“I told you to hold the people you love close to you, no matter what.”

Kurt opens his mouth, but he has no response to that. Not a good one, at least. He looks away.

“I tried,” he says, softly, without conviction.

“Not hard enough.”

“You don’t get it, Dad. I’m going to be a household _name_. That kind of success requires sacrifice. It’s _worth_ the sacrifice.”

The spirit raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. Why else would I have done it?”

“I don’t know, son. But that’s not something I can help you with.”

“What - what do you mean? I thought that was the whole reason you were still _here_.”

“You’re going to be visited by three spirits. The first will come tonight at 1, the second tomorrow at the same time, and the third the following day at midnight.”

“That’s - I have to work, Dad, I can’t be up until all hours of the morning doing…ghost therapy, or whatever this is.”

“Just trust me, Kurt. Trust me and listen to them. Their job is to help you see.”

“See what?”

“You’ll see.”

Kurt can’t help but crack a smile at his familiar deadpan humor, but it fades quickly.

“Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. If things go well…”

“Will you be able to…move on?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Okay. I’ll listen.”

The spirit smiles, big and fond.

“I love you, kid.”

That lump comes back with a vengeance.

“I love you too, Dad.”

With that, the spirit floats over to the window and moves through the glass, slow-motion slow like he did when he passed through the door.

“Good luck,” he says, just before he fades into the night.

“Goodbye,” murmurs Kurt.

He shakes himself, swallows down that painful lump. He turns off his lights, buries himself in his covers, and finds himself drifting to sleep before he has the chance to wonder at this strange turn of events.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s the light that wakes him rather than any sound, a brilliant light, pure and white, that drills through his closed eyelids, hard as diamond. He shoots up, panicking and disoriented, squinting against the assault. He scrabbles back against the headboard. One hand is thrust out in supplication.

“What the hell is going on?” he manages. “Who’s there?”

The light dims to something duller, soft enough to look through.

“Look.”

There’s something familiar about the voice that makes the breath catch in Kurt’s throat. It’s soft, feminine. It scares him.

He looks anyway.

It’s a face he knows from pictures more than his own memory. Sharp features, soft eyes, and a smile he’s been missing so much longer than he had it. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders in waves lit golden by the pale light spilling down from the crown of her head.

Now he _knows_ he’s dreaming.

“Mom?”

His voice is little-boy tremulous, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yes. And no.”

“Let me guess – you’re the _spirit_ of my mother?”

Her smile quirks wryly.

“I am a spirit, yes. Who I am is entirely up to you.”

Her tone is detached, almost warm enough to take on a tinge of amusement. It’s enough to hold back the leap of Kurt’s heart.

“What do you mean?”

“I am able to take many shapes. The one you see is thought to be the most…soothing, to you. We have a journey ahead of us.”

“Journey?”

“Of sorts.”

“So, wait. Who _are_ you, then?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

Kurt laughs, short and hysterical.

“Of course. Of course you are. And you thought it would be _soothing_ to me to be woken up by a ghost wearing my mother’s face? God, I actually can’t decide which of us belongs in the crazy house more.”

Her expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t even twitch.

“Come. Take my hand.”

“Okay, so we’ve established that it’s you. No way. You stole my mother’s _face_. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Her eyes flash.

“Kurt. We don’t have time for this.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just pull the covers back over my head right now and pretend that you don’t exist.”

“You will regret it deeply if you do.”

“Are you _threatening_ me?”

“No. Simply…informing.”

“I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas _Past_. Isn’t the future someone else’s deal?”

“It does not take a forward-facing eye to see that you are miserable, darling.”

Her smile is sad, and genuine, and Kurt finds himself once more at a loss for words. It looks so very much like her, just like she did when Kurt was six and came home crying over the destruction of his favorite Ariel doll at the hands of playground bullies.

Kurt hardens his heart. This is, after all, an imposter.

“I am not a little boy anymore, and you are not my mother. You do not get to call me that.”

His words make not one bit of impact.

“Kurt. Take my hand. I have many things to show you, and our time together is running short.”

The spirit holds out her hand, ephemeral and elegant.

Kurt hesitates. He looks up, into her expecting eyes, and he can’t say no. Even if it is nothing more than a cruel trick. His father told him to listen. And those eyes, no matter who they belong to now, were once his mother’s.

He breathes out the last of his trepidation. He reaches out and grasps her hand, surprised at the cool solidity of it beneath his palm.

The world begins to melt away.

The walls, the floor, the bed, all give way to snowy white ground, and Kurt is left to fall, ass first, into a drift. He scrambles to his feet, face hot with embarrassment more than with exertion.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” he snaps. The spirit does not deign to answer. Instead, she smiles enigmatically and gestures at the house in front of them. Kurt huffs an inward sigh and turns to follow with his gaze.

The house is his. Or at least, it was. It’s Carole’s now, and Finn’s when he comes to visit. Kurt hasn’t been back since his father’s funeral.

Someone’s gone all out this year in the decorating department. Blue and white lights are strung carefully along the edges of the roof and around all of the windows, simple and classy. There’s a wreath hanging from the door and garlands slung artfully over the railing of the porch and twisting up its columns. Best of all, there’s a legion of snowmen greeting them along the front pathway - neatly formed, with cheerful button smiles and accessories that could have come from Kurt’s own high school wardrobe. One of them sports a holiday-themed bow tie, complete with miniature Christmas trees printed all over.

It’s then that he remembers.

He turns to the spirit.

“I know where we are,” he says quietly, “But _when_ are we?”

The spirit smiles, a real one this time, a smile that looks foreign on his mother’s face.

“Oh, you are a clever boy.”

“Well?”

“When do you think?”

“2011. It has to be.”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t particularly feel the need to venture inside, but the spirit gestures again.

“Shall we?”

Kurt hesitates.

“Will they see us?”

“No. These are but shadows of the past. You may change nothing, and no one can detect your presence.”

Kurt nods. He marches up to the front door and raises his hand to knock. Before he can, the spirit grabs hold of it and walks them through. Kurt expects it to feel strange - hard, or thick, somehow - but the door is no more material than the air surrounding it.

Inside is a scene so warm and so lovely that, seeing it, Kurt’s throat tightens against his will. The air is thick with the scent of roasting ham and the lingering spice of gingerbread, bright with the glow of Christmas tree lights. The familiar sounds of a football game make Kurt roll his eyes reflexively, even as he smiles. And best of all, there, his three men lined up on the couch, _alive_ and leaning forward with rapt attention as someone wanders into the room.

It’s _him_. Himself, as he was at 17. Awkward in his body and covering it up so well he even fooled himself. So young, even though he never felt it at the time. Naïve, in spite of everything.

He settles in his dad’s armchair, perched on the edge, legs crossed. He leans forward and watches the screen, just like the others. He uncrosses his legs. He glances at the couch. He turns his gaze back to the screen with attention so focused it furrows his brow. Finally, he slumps, settles back into the cushions, and grabs a copy of Vogue from the coffee table with a huff of a sigh.

Tradition.

His father glances over, a smirk of a smile on his lips, and nudges Blaine with an elbow. Blaine looks over and smiles, too. He’s fond, and so _young_. His eyes are big and soft and almost glowing with the force of what he feels, so entirely open.

Kurt breathes in sharply.

He’s forgotten what it was like. He doesn’t know how, when he burned every look into the cold, starving corners of his heart, a talisman against the fear that he would never be loved. He remembers, now. He swallows.

Finn watches on, oblivious.

“Dinner’s just about ready, boys.” Kurt’s head snaps over to Carole, bright and happy and wiping her hands on an apron that’s seen better days. “Can I get some help setting the table?”

Blaine shoots to his feet.

“I’d be happy to help, Mrs. Hummel.”

Carole smiles warmly and pats him on the cheek when he gets close enough to reach.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll get the others to help with clean up.” She winks conspiratorially and plants a hand on his back to steer him toward the cutlery.

“I don’t mind helping, honestly.”

“It’s true,” calls out Kurt. He doesn’t look up from his magazine. “He lives for folding napkin swans.” He’s biting down on a smile. Blaine grins.

“I do love origami.”

“Well then, we’d better get you to work.”

The scene continues on like this for some time; Blaine and Carole bustle to and fro, Finn and Kurt’s dad watch the game, rapt, and Kurt flicks lazily through his magazine. He and Blaine sneak glances and smiles when they think the others aren’t looking, lovesick little things that Carole takes note of without a word.

Finally, she rounds up the troops and everyone takes a seat at the table. Finn is the last to make it, reluctant but not whining as he turns off the game (he knows better). He perks up when he sees the spread.

Once everyone is settled, Kurt’s dad raises his glass in a toast.

“Here’s to family,” he says. “We all know better than most that family is a choice. And damn if we didn’t choose right.”

“Here, here,” chimes in Carole.

“To family,” chorus Kurt and Finn, as they all lean in to clink their glasses. Blaine just smiles, overcome, perhaps, with the way he was included so pointedly, or maybe with the way Kurt is squeezing his hand beneath the table. Either way, his eyes are big and shining and _grateful_ , and it’s hard to look at.

Kurt watches for a little while longer, unable to help the way his heart contracts to see himself fuss over his father’s portions, all the while filling his own plate with an entire river of gravy. This Kurt, the one at the table, is so alive, so _happy_. He chatters a mile a minute, shooting Finn dirty looks when he talks through half-masticated ham, rubbing a hand over Blaine’s back or his bicep when he says something that Kurt finds endearing. His eyes light up bright as the Christmas tree when Carole engages him in a conversation about the post-wardrobe-purge shopping trip they have planned for Boxing Day.

“He’s happy, isn’t he?”

Kurt starts. He’d forgotten about the spirit, who’s suddenly appeared at his elbow. Her voice is soft, her expression unreadable. She’s looking at the table, and she could be talking about any one of them, but it’s clear who she means. Kurt can only nod.

“It’s the best Christmas I ever had.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

He watches until it hurts. He turns to the spirit.

“Can we get out of here? Please?”

She inclines her head, a small smile on her lips.

“As you wish.”

Her light glows suddenly brighter, and the dining room starts to melt. Kurt braces himself this time.

When the world rights itself again, they’re in a spacious, shabby apartment that Kurt remembers so well it makes him wince. He’d done what he could, but nothing could take away the distinct feeling of drafty and drab that permeated the air in that loft when it wasn’t filled with music and laughter. Now, it’s dim with cheerful light from the candles scattered over the living area’s sparse flat surfaces and the lamps that do little to ward off the night. The space has the distinct feeling of emptiness that indicates a party recently ended, the kind of loud silence that can only exist after a buzz.

Kurt sees himself flopped onto the couch, head tilted back and eyes staring at nothing. It’s a good sort of looseness in his body, the kind that comes from satisfaction. He’s a few years older, now, and it’s obvious in the sharper lines of his face and the sure set of his shoulders.

It’s a quiet, peaceful sort of moment that Kurt would be loath to interrupt, had he the capacity to do so.

“You know, I think we may have forgotten something this year.” Kurt’s younger incarnation flops his head to the side to look up at the speaker, eyelashes low and a small, coy smile playing across his mouth.

“What’s that?”

Blaine leans down to press a button on the iPod dock placed conveniently on the side table in front of him. He smiles broadly.

“Sing with me?”

The opening strains of “Winter Wonderland” start to play, right on cue. Blaine offers a hand and Kurt takes it, making a show of rising gracefully to his feet.

“It is tradition,” he says, once they’re eye to eye. He doesn’t let go.

Kurt remembers this night as clearly as if it were yesterday. It’s happiness that’s easiest to forget – the painful things stick with you forever. He wants to tell the spirit that he’s leaving, with or without her, he wants to beg her to take him away, but even this cold sense of dread can’t take away all of his reason.

He knows exactly what good it will do. He steels himself instead.

Kurt can see now what he didn’t see then, drowning himself as he did in the romance of the song. Blaine means every single word, he always does when he sings, but he’s also…performing. It’s that thing that always drove Kurt crazy at Warbler rehearsal, the way Blaine could look into his eyes and sing like that and still, _still_ , be so far away.

His younger self doesn’t see it at all. He’s singing now the way he learned to when he let himself open his heart. A way to communicate when words can’t encompass the things that he feels.

... _He sings a love song, as we go along_...

It’s the only way he’s ever known to let Blaine see the fragile insides of his heart.

_…We’ll conspire, as we dream by the fire, to face unafraid the plans that we’ve made, walking in a winter wonderland…_

They wander as they sing, improvising twirls and spins as they see fit. They end up by the tree, hands curled together, cheeks pink, bodies close as they sing the last, soft notes.

Kurt isn’t thinking at all. It’s obvious now, and he remembers the feeling so clearly. He remembers the strain of holding back the things that should be Blaine’s, looking into Blaine’s eyes and feeling a swell inside that leads them here, to this moment, when he lets go.

Kurt reaches up with a gentle, certain hand, and pulls Blaine in for a kiss.

Blaine’s eyelids flutter down. His mouth responds immediately. His free hand stays clenched at his side.

Kurt pulls him in closer and tighter, hand scrabbling against the small of Blaine’s back, mouth turning desperate after so long without. Blaine’s hand twitches, tense, like he’s holding back, until finally it breaks free and he’s bringing it up to Kurt’s shoulder, and – God, he has nightmares about this – _pushes_ against him.

He’s gentle, but it does the job.

Kurt pulls back with a soft whine that makes him cringe, now. His eyes, when they open, are almost eaten up by the black of his pupils. His chest is heaving, slightly, more from adrenaline than from exertion.

“Kurt.”

“ _Please_.”

Kurt can’t watch, but he can’t look away. There’s this stupid, stubborn hope that things will turn out differently, this time.

His younger self tries to lean back in. Blaine stops him with one word.

“Wait.”

Kurt freezes. His eyes widen, and the fear creeps in.

“Don’t you…?”

“No! That isn’t - I – I mean, of course, of _course_ I do, but don’t you think we should talk first?”

Kurt blinks, confused and hazy.

“What is there to talk about? We’ve waited for this long enough, don’t you think?”

“I just – it’s been over a year, Kurt.”

“Yeah, I know. But this is…a moment, Blaine.”

Kurt’s hand clenches into the material of Blaine’s sweater. It’s clear from the tension in his muscles that he’s straining against the urge to pull Blaine’s body to his. His jaw is nearly trembling with it.

“Kurt, please, we have to – I can’t do this if we’re not…”

Blaine’s eyes are wide and nearly desperate for Kurt to understand. Everything else has been locked away.

“Blaine, of course I want to be with you – that’s what I’ve always wanted, you _know_ that.”

From the look on Blaine’s face, it’s obvious that he doesn’t.

“Kurt…”

“I trust you, Blaine, and I love you. Now, please, can you just _kiss_ me?”

He wants to, God, it’s so clear that he does. Every line of his body is pulling to Kurt. But still, he holds himself back. His voice has been scratched raw under the force of it.

“Can’t we just _talk_?”

Kurt’s brow pulls tight with frustration and, watching it, he’s tempted to pull himself aside and give himself a shake, because he can see how much is hinging on this moment.

“I’ve told you – I forgive you, I trust you, I _want_ this. What more do you need to hear?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Blaine takes a step back, folds his arms protectively across his stomach. The moment has passed. “I…I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear all of that, Kurt. Honestly. It’s just – it’s not only about that.”

“What more could there _be_?”

“Maybe I want you to _listen_ to me, too.”

“Alright, fine. I’m listening.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows, gaze boring into Blaine expectantly. His eyes are a little wild with the feeling in his bleeding, open heart. It’s too late, now, to close it off. Blaine watches him warily.

“Well?”

“I don’t know if I trust _you_.”

It bursts out of him. Kurt recoils, as shocked as if he’d been slapped. Blaine, too, looks uneasy, but he stands his ground.

“What do you mean?”

Blaine swallows.

“Kurt. You’re so important to me. You’re my family, and I’ll always want you in my life, but…things were falling apart for us long before I cheated.”

Kurt stares, mouth gaping.

“You can’t be serious. That is actually insane. We were in a long-distance relationship, and it was hard, but I _never_ – _you_ were the one that cheated, Blaine, not me. I never lied to you, I didn’t even _flirt_ with other guys because it felt too… Unless – oh God.” He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t about _Chandler_ again, is it?”

“What? No, of course not. It’s not about anyone else, Kurt. It’s about us. We started to go wrong the _second_ you left for New York, and the fact that you never even noticed…” His voice cracks, and he looks away, steadies himself. “You were busy. You were building a new life for yourself. I get that. I even got it then. You just also made it really clear to me that there wasn’t a place for me anymore.” He looks up, here, and meets Kurt’s eyes. “The way I reacted was…unforgivable. I know that, and I’m so grateful that you’ve found a way to forgive me anyway. But that doesn’t change the fact that you made promises to me that you couldn’t keep.”

Kurt is thrown. He crosses his arms. His eyes go cold and snapping.

“Are you saying that it was my _fault_?”

“Of course not, no! I’m saying that I was _unhappy_ , Kurt. I’m saying that we can’t just fall into this, because nothing will change, and we’ll have the same problems all over again. I’m saying we need to _talk_.”

“Fine! Great! So, talk!”

He raises his eyebrows, expression painted all over with belligerent impatience. Blaine huffs out an unhappy laugh.

“That’s not how this works, Kurt. I don’t want you to _humor_ me. I don’t want you to placate me with an empty promise and leave me behind when you get bored, or busy, or when things get hard. I can’t do that. I _swore_ I would never do that again.”

“Jesus. Is that really what you think of me?”

Blaine looks away, then back again. His eyes are bright with reflected light from the Christmas tree. His mouth is twisted up, bittersweet and sad.

“I think…you moved on. You may not have meant to, but you did. I think that maybe I don’t fit into your life like I used to, even if there are still...feelings. And I think maybe it’s better this way.”

Kurt doesn’t say a thing. Blaine looks at him patiently, waits. Kurt, watching, wants to scream.

“What are you doing?” he mutters, staring hard at his own impassive face. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

He knows why. He knows what happens. And yet.

Still, Kurt says nothing. His face remains carefully blank. Blaine takes in another steadying breath.

“I release you.”

His voice is quiet and clear amidst the silence of stalemate.

“What?”

“From any and all promises you made to me when we were in high school. We were young, and we’ve changed. It’s only right.”

It should feel like cutting tethers. It should be freeing. That’s how Blaine intends it, clearly. And yet, Kurt can bring himself, past and present, to feel nothing more than adrift. It’s a horrible feeling.

His past self nods, stiffly. He averts his gaze. Blaine takes that as a cue to continue.

“So. We’ll just start fresh, as friends. No obligations. Except our Christmas duet, of course. That’s non-negotiable.”

It’s a feeble joke, and it falls flat.

“I’d like that,” murmurs Kurt.

Kurt can almost see it now, the way the barriers rise between them in this moment. Blaine smiles, and it isn’t remotely real, and Kurt smiles back, small and weak.

“I should probably go,” says Blaine. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea. Who knows what kind of weirdos are out on Christmas?”

Blaine takes the opportunity to walk away, put some distance between them as he gathers his things.

“Will you text me when you hear from your dad? I felt bad about sending them out there to fend for themselves on the subway.”

“Of course. But I think they’ll be fine – this isn’t their first time, after all.”

“Right.”

Blaine finishes buttoning up his jacket and flashes a big, blinding smile.

“Merry Christmas, Kurt,” he says warmly. He leans in and gives Kurt a hug that he returns stiffly.

“Merry Christmas.”

He knows what happens next, in the loft. Kurt will finish cleaning up, he’ll get ready for bed, he’ll text Blaine just like he said. He won’t cry himself to sleep, no matter how desperately he wants to, because he’s promised himself that he’s done crying over Blaine Anderson.

He doesn’t need to see any of that.

He follows Blaine instead. The spirit doesn’t stop him, doesn’t say anything, in fact, merely follows him as he follows his whim.

Blaine makes it out of the building and down the block, stride long and pace quick, as if to distance himself from the loft as quickly as he can. He stops, suddenly, and leans against the brick of a building on the corner. He tilts his head back and sucks in a breath. Kurt steps closer, he can’t help it, and he sees the twin tear tracks winding down his cheeks. Blaine runs a hand over his face, wipes away the tears with a bitter scoff of a laugh.

“Come on, Anderson,” he mutters, “get it together.”

He stays like that for a moment, hands pressed to eyes. Then he shakes himself, seeming to come to a decision, and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his contacts and, finally, presses a button. He brings the phone to his ear. He bites his lip as he waits, a tell that Kurt hasn’t forgotten. He’s nervous.

“Hey. Um. I know this is a weird time to call, but I just – does your offer still stand, for New Year’s Eve? Because I think I’ve changed my mind.”

Blaine pauses, listens. He smiles a little, and it’s genuine.

“Okay, so I _know_ I have. What do you say?” Another pause. His smile grows. “Perfect. Meet me at my place at 7. We’ll go to dinner first. And, Sebastian? Just so you know, we won’t be having sex, even if it is a date.”

He laughs, loud and clear, at something Sebastian says on the other end, and Kurt feels sick. He breathes in sharply and turns to the spirit, who’s watching him mildly.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it. Can we please go now?”

He’s almost ready for it, this time, when everything shifts around him.

He’s back in Lima. The living room is dark, in spite of the light reflecting brightly off of the snow through the window. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner that hasn’t been plugged in. There are two silent figures on the couch.

He turns away.

“Why are you doing this? I don’t see how torturing me like this is supposed to teach me anything.”

She brings a cool, guiding hand to his cheek.

“Just watch.”

He looks back.

He knows exactly what year this is. He doesn’t need context clues to figure it out. He was 24, but he looks so much older than that. Rachel is watching him, wide-eyed, unsure what to do with the silence. She’s dressed all in black, and she’s sitting stiffly, as if she’ll be called upon to get up and make a pot of tea at any moment.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?” she says, finally, anxiously.

“No.”

“I can make some calls, maybe. I know everyone will want to come by, if you’ll let them.”

“No, Rachel. If I wanted sympathy cards and tacky fruit baskets, I’d call them myself.”

“Funeral arrangements, then? You shouldn’t have to deal with all of that on top of your grief.”

She’s so eager to be understanding, so desperate to be useful, but Kurt isn’t even looking at her.

“Carole and Finn are taking care of it.”

“Do you maybe want to take a nap? I know how late you were at the hospital last night. You must be tired.”

Finally, he turns to her.

“I’m an adult, Rachel. I can take care of myself. If you want to do something, you can _leave me alone_.”

She freezes for a second, then picks herself off of the couch and smooths down her skirt.

“Okay. Just – please, call me if you need me? I just want to make things easier for you.”

She waits, but Kurt doesn’t respond. She gathers her coat, slowly, and shrugs it on, and it’s obvious that she’s hoping he’ll call her back. He doesn’t. She sighs, opens the door, and stops with a short, soft gasp.

On the other side is Blaine, hand poised to knock. The look of surprise on his face would be comical in any other circumstance.

“Blaine!”

She recovers immediately from her shock and throws herself into his arms.

“Rachel. What’s – ”

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here! He won’t talk to me, he won’t do anything but _sit_ there.”

It’s what Kurt knows is her attempt at a whisper, but the words carry clear as a bell. Blaine rubs a hand soothingly over her back.

“Are you going over to the hospital?”

“Of course. I’m sure there’s something I can do to make this easier for Carole. She shouldn’t have to take all of this on with only Finn for help.”

“I’m sure she’ll be grateful.”

She smiles at him, briefly, and gives him one last squeeze. She hurries out to her car.

“She seems sweet,” comments the spirit, voice fond. Kurt can’t bring himself to look at her.

“She has her moments.”

Blaine has made his way inside by now, hanging his coat in the closet and placing his shoes carefully by the door before joining Kurt on the couch. He, too, is dressed in black. His eyes are red with the remnants of tears. He waits for Kurt to make the first move.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with your boyfriend?”

“He understands. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, last night.”

“It’s fine. He wasn’t exactly lucid enough to know the difference.”

“I meant, for you.”

Kurt turns, looks at him. He swallows down the emotion that was threatening to break through his blank eyes.

“You’re here, now.”

“Yeah, I am. For as long as you need me.”

Kurt nods, looks away. His hand creeps over to Blaine’s, where it rests on the cushion between them. Blaine takes it, easy as breathing. They sit, for a time, in silence.

“He really thought he was going to make it through Christmas,” says Kurt, eventually. “We were going to go over there this morning and surprise him with a tree and presents. We were going to sing Christmas carols and watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_. It’s his favorite. We thought we’d get a miracle.”

“He had his family with him, at the end. That’s all he really wanted.”

“No. What he _really_ wanted was to live to see his grandkids, Blaine. But that was never going to happen, was it?”

Blaine just squeezes his hand. He knows, just as Kurt does, that there’s nothing he can say to that.

“I’ll miss him,” he says instead. It’s soft, and earnest in that way that Blaine has. It leaves no room to doubt his sincerity. He blinks, hard. His tears don’t fall.

“Me too.”

The barest hint of a whisper. Kurt’s don’t fall either.

This time, when he looks at Blaine, something small and scared breaks through the surface. Blaine moves closer. Kurt leans in, rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder.

They sit in silence until Kurt, ever so softly, starts to sing. Blaine swallows and squeezes his hand. He joins in.

… _I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me_ …

It’s slow and shaky, and they make no attempt at harmony.

“Your last Christmas duet.”

It’s the spirit. Kurt’s head snaps to her. She doesn’t seem to fit in this room, whose warmth has been sucked so completely away. She shows up pale gold, shimmering and wrong against the palette of melancholy gray. Her eyes, on the other hand, match perfectly.

… _I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams_ …

The melody winds down. Kurt closes his eyes and lets himself lean more heavily against Blaine’s sturdy shoulder. Blaine rests his cheek against Kurt’s hair.

“I’ve had enough.”

Kurt’s voice feels harsh against the delicate peace created by those two figures on the couch. The strain of it is painful around the lump he couldn’t stop from forming in his throat. The spirit looks at him with her kind, sad eyes that do nothing to quench the feeling in his chest.

“Yes. I suppose you have.”

Her hand is almost soothing when it brushes against his wrist.

The space around them reforms, and they’re somewhere he doesn’t immediately recognize. It’s an apartment, a nice one, and he’s been there before. The decorating scheme is extremely familiar - strong lines, masculine shapes, and lovely, dark colors. There are touches of whimsy sprinkled throughout, like the robots on the mantelpiece and the framed, vintage X-Men artwork on the wall. There is a Christmas tree in the corner, elegant and warm, with blue and white lights and colored glass ornaments in a multitude of shapes and sizes. A sparkling gold star rests proudly on top. The residue of opened presents is piled neatly on the floor nearby.

A photo on the mantelpiece catches Kurt’s eye, and all becomes clear.

Of course.

It’s Blaine’s apartment. Well, Blaine’s and Sebastian’s. Kurt came to their housewarming party. He stayed for half an hour and spent most of it at the buffet table.

There are noises coming from the bedroom, murmuring voices and the light thumps of people opening closet doors and shutting drawers.

Kurt looks to the spirit. She nods softly.

“Go on, darling.”

Kurt ignores the shiver that runs up his spine and moves cautiously toward the noises.

He sees Blaine first, standing in front of the full length mirror and running a comb through his hair. It’s looser than it was when Kurt last left him, slightly waved in the front and on the sides, but still firmly under control. He looks older, something in the way he holds his body and the depth in his eyes. He’s dressed for a night out, in a tightly tailored suit jacket and crisply ironed slacks.

Sebastian comes into view.

The animosity that once burned for him like fire in Kurt’s gut has diminished over the years. He’s mellowed since high school. He cares for Blaine. But Kurt will _never_ understand their relationship.

He steels himself.

“Are you _sure_ you want to go?”

Blaine cocks his head and smiles teasingly.

“I never thought I’d see the day when _you_ turn down a night out.”

Sebastian snorts. He ambles over to the mirror, slides his long arms around Blaine’s waist, bends down to hook his chin over Blaine’s shoulder. He crosses his hands over Blaine’s stomach, pulling him lightly back until his weight is resting against Sebastian’s body.

“I was just hoping to spend the evening with you. Alone.” He presses a slow kiss to the side of Blaine’s neck. “We haven’t had much in the way of alone time recently.”

Blaine’s eyes flutter closed.

“I know.” He turns around, hands drifting up to drape around Sebastian’s shoulders. Sebastian’s hands shift low over Blaine’s back until his thumbs are hooked in his belt and his palms rest on the swell beneath. Blaine looks up at him through his lashes. “I’ve missed it, too, believe me. Maybe we should plan something special for Sunday, just the two of us. Or we could cancel our plans for New Year’s, just stay in and watch the ball drop from the living room like they do back home.”

Sebastian’s gaze narrows, like he’s searching for something that isn’t obvious in Blaine’s expression. Something he doesn’t entirely want to find.

“Is there a particular reason you’re so set on going to this party?”

He says it like he’s teasing, but Blaine’s smile goes slightly fake, and he stops his fingers from fidgeting at Sebastian’s neck.

“I just thought it would be fun, that’s all. Christmas is about spending time with loved ones, and it would be nice to see our friends. Besides, I already told her we’d be coming. She programmed the karaoke machine specifically with us in mind.”

“Don’t you see most of these people every day?”

“Some of them, yeah. For work. I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

Blaine’s tone is still pleasant, but Kurt can detect the frustration beneath. Sebastian obviously can, too. He gets right to the point.

“Is this about Kurt?”

Blaine stiffens.

“Kurt? I don’t even think he’ll be there. He never comes to these things, anymore.”

“But you’re hoping. I know you, Blaine, I can tell. There’s a part of you that’s hoping he’ll defy your expectations and show up for your Christmas duet like you’re still starry-eyed teenagers.”

“I haven’t seen him for months.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. He doesn’t return your calls, he’s always at work, he didn’t even show up for the front-row opening-night tickets you had hand-delivered to his office. And still, you’d rather go to a party on the slim chance you might see _him_ than spend time with your boyfriend.”

Blaine’s jaw is tense and his eyes big and shocked. He steps away from Sebastian’s grip and wraps his own arms across his stomach.

“That is not fair.”

Sebastian’s eyes flare, and his fists clench at his sides.

“Isn’t it? I’ve tried so hard to let it go. He was your first love, and your best friend, and I get that he’s important to you. But I thought you told me that you let him _go_. I thought that was the _point_ of this.”

“I _have_.”

“If you really think that, then you’re delusional.”

“You can’t be asking me to cut him out of my life.”

Blaine’s tone is bordering on dangerous. Sebastian scoffs.

“I know better than that. And, clearly, he’s already done most of the work for you.”

Blaine sucks in a sharp breath, then looks away and lets it go, slow and easy.

“Come on, Sebastian. Don’t do this. Don’t turn into an asshole just because you’re angry at me. You always regret it.”

“I’m not _angry_ , don’t you get it? Blaine, you’re my first love. You’re the first guy I ever had any kind of serious feelings for. I _changed_ because of you - everything about the way I saw myself and my life seemed so ridiculous and so _small_ after we met that I literally couldn’t help it. I tried to get over you so many times, in so many different ways, and it never worked. I never could. I don’t know if I ever will. The day you called me and told me _yes_ , finally, was the best day of my life.” He stops, pauses, gathers himself. It’s costing him, Kurt can tell, to expose his tender underbelly. “But the thing is, I’ve always known that you didn’t feel the same. You tell me you love me, and I believe you, but it’s not the _same_. You’ve never felt for me the way I feel for you because Kurt Hummel, of all people, is still taking up space in your heart that he _doesn’t even want_.”

Blaine is nearly trembling. His voice, when he speaks, is low and tight.

“That is ridiculous. I love you, Sebastian. I’ve told you and told you, a million times I’ve told you, and still. It is not my fault that you’re still hanging on to some stupid schoolboy rivalry!”

Sebastian’s eyes flash, but he bites back his retort. He closes his eyes for a second.

“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

The question catches Blaine off-guard. Kurt can relate.

“Is this – are you – ?”

“No, just. Hypothetically.”

“I’d say _yes_. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.”

It clearly isn’t what Sebastian wants to hear. He sighs.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”

Blaine catches him by the elbow, tries to make eye contact. Sebastian shakes him gently off. Blaine clenches his jaw.

“Can we talk about this later, at least?”

Sebastian doesn’t reply.

“They broke up later that night,” supplies the spirit, helpfully. Kurt’s heart plummets. He didn’t even know they’d broken up at all, much less an entire year ago.

He turns to her.

“Why didn’t he _tell_ me?”

“He didn’t think you’d listen. You can’t tell me you blame him for that.”

Kurt says nothing. She smiles knowingly.

“I think that brings our journey together to an end.”

The room fades away in a manner that’s become awfully familiar. He finds himself tucked up in his bed, when it’s over. The spirit leans close to his face, smiling benignly. Her hair falls in loose, lit-up strands from behind her ears.

“You must be tired. Sleep well, darling. And remember what you’ve seen.”

His reply dies on his tongue as her light dims to blackness and he’s left to dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

This time, it’s a bell that wakes him, a church bell clanging so loudly it could be in the living room. Kurt sits up, heart racing. He remembers.

“Who’s there?” he calls.

No one answers. The bell rings again, this time in a simple melody that scratches at the edges of Kurt’s memory. He can see a light flickering beneath his bedroom door, dancing like fire.

He climbs cautiously out of bed and creeps over to it. He touches the knob - a part of him expects to find it hot. He turns it, slowly, and opens the door.

There is no bell, no blazing inferno, just a male figure, lounging on the couch. He’s lit warm from within, like someone has set candles burning beneath his skin. His clothing is loose and does nothing to hide his beauty. He has a wreath of evergreen and holly set in his curling hair, and eyes that glow like embers.

“ _Blaine_?”

Ten different kinds of panic set upon him at once, though only one is loud enough to hear above the clamor.

“Are you - does this mean - ?”

“No, Kurt,” he says, and it’s his voice, too. “He’s very much alive. More alive than you are at the moment, I would imagine.”

Kurt ignores what is clearly meant as a jab.

“Are you - are you a spirit, too, then?”

He taps a finger to his nose. It sets off a spark.

“Got it in one.”

“Why him?”

He laughs jovially.

“Why not? It got your attention, did it not?”

Kurt scowls.

“It isn’t funny.”

“Oh, come now. Who am I?”

He stands up, arms spread, and smiles encouragingly. Kurt sighs. There really isn’t a point to resisting.

“The Ghost of Christmas Present?”

“But of course. Now, does that answer your question?”

“No.”

“No matter. It will. Come, take my hand and we’ll be on our way.”

Kurt grimaces.

“Again? Can’t we just skip this part? I think I get the point.”

The spirit smiles broadly.

“I’m glad. Now take my hand.”

Kurt sighs and complies. His hand is warm. It even feels the same, down to the tingle that crawls up his arm and sets his spine buzzing. Suddenly, there’s a swoop in his gut and the whoosh of wind streaming over his face, and it’s all over so fast he can only remember a blur of dark and light on all sides as they fly. His knees nearly buckle at the impact.

They’re at Blaine’s apartment again. The differences are subtle but clear. The tree is slightly shorter, the ornaments in a different configuration. There are photos on the mantel of Blaine with his family and who Kurt assumes to be his friends. Sebastian no longer features.

It’s afternoon, this time, and Blaine is sitting on the couch with a man that Kurt recognizes after only a few seconds of staring. He’s got a goatee, now, but looks otherwise much as he did in high school.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Sam since then.

Blaine has got a kitten curled up on his lap, a fluffy white thing who’s purring so loudly Kurt can hear her from where he stands.

“Snowball?” suggests Sam, eyebrows raised hopefully. “Snowy for short?”

“I don’t know, Sam, it’s not very...original.”

Blaine scratches the kitten behind the ears and smiles when she pushes her head back against his fingers.

“What about Selina?” On Blaine’s blank stare, he prompts, “Catwoman?”

Blaine levels him a look. He cradles the kitten in his hands and brings her up to eye level.

“Do you really think _this_ is the face of a sexy cat burglar?”

He has a point.

“Just trying to help, dude.”

“I’m thinking...Matilda.”

“Like the kids’ movie?”

“It was my favorite book when I was little.”

Blaine looks at the kitten in his hands with a soft smile. He settles her back onto his lap and strokes a hand down her back. There’s such care in his fingers, and something almost longing in his eyes.

“She could be called Maddie for short.”

Sam seems to pick up on the same thing that Kurt has - Blaine isn’t thinking about a kitten.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, cautiously. “Maybe you should save that one.”

“What for?”

“Maybe you’ll want to use it for something else.”

Blaine hesitates.

“No. I think it suits her.”

Something a little sad crosses Sam’s face, but he covers it with a quick grin.

“Alright, then.” He grabs a pencil from the coffee table and leans toward them, eraser end out. He taps her solemnly on each shoulder and, once, just between the ears. She flicks them, annoyed at the disturbance. “I dub thee Lady Matilda Anderson. Long may you serve your master well.”

Blaine smiles, broad and happy.

“You like that, Maddie?” He bends down to look her in the eye. She mewls, and he chuckles fondly. “That’s your name now, so you’d better get used to it.”

“I’m glad you two are hitting it off so well.”

“She’s wonderful Sam, really. I can’t thank you enough. I always wanted a cat, but - ”

“Sebastian was allergic. I remember.”

“Yeah.”

Melancholy creeps over his face, dark and ominous as a rain cloud. Sam leans close, face full of sympathy.

“Honestly? I thought you seemed a little...lonely.”

Blaine’s eyes flick to him, then back down to Matilda. His jaw tightens, ever so slightly.

“That’s sweet, but I’m really fine. I promise.”

“I know.”

Blaine is silent for a moment, watching as Matilda yawns hugely, baring her tiny teeth, and settles back down on his lap. His jaw relaxes.

“It will be nice to have something to come home to.”

“Yeah. I don’t what I’d do without Snuffles.”

Blaine snorts.

“I still can’t believe you called him that. You could at least have gone for Padfoot.”

“I _told_ you, it didn’t fit.”

“I guess you’re right. Only a dog named Snuffles would knock over a garbage can to get at the used tissues.”

“See? I told you.”

Even though Kurt is completely grossed out, he can’t help but smile when the two of them start laughing together. Matilda, affronted by the sudden movement, rises gracelessly to her feet and makes her wobbly way off of Blaine’s lap to the couch cushions.

Soon enough, they lapse into silence.

“You know,” says Sam, thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think it’s a wonder that you don’t hate Christmas.”

Blaine chuckles.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you don’t. You give pretty much the best presents _ever_.”

“You’re not hard to shop for.”

“True.”

Blaine catches his gaze. He’s got that soulful look in his big, beautiful eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d be doing with myself, otherwise.”

“My guess would be watching _White Christmas_ for the billionth time and singing along at the top of your lungs.”

“Probably.”

They share a smile. Sam looks away and clears his throat. He looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Did you ever, um, hear from Kurt? About the party, I mean.”

“Oh. No. I didn’t expect to, though. You know how he is.”

Sam nods.

“Too busy for anybody that matters.”

“That’s not fair. It takes a lot of work to get to where he is. Luck isn’t going to get his designs on the cover of Vogue. It’s no wonder he’s so busy.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, expression the very definition of incredulous.

“Why do you always defend him? Have you even _seen_ him in the past six months?”

 _Yes_ , Kurt thinks. They ran into each other at Starbucks last July. They made small talk while they waited for their coffee and promised to get together for lunch sometime soon. Blaine sent him a text later that day. Kurt never responded.

“Yes, actually, but that isn’t the point. I defend him because, well. If I don’t do it, who will? I can’t just _abandon_ him.”

Blaine is pleading, by the end, for Sam to understand. He looks so defeated. Sam’s eyes go soft.

“No, you’re right. I know how much he means to you.”

“Yeah.”

Blaine is silent for a moment, the gears turning in his head as he reaches out to Matilda where’s she’s flopped herself on the cushion.

“Do you think Sebastian was right?” he says, finally. His tone is carefully neutral. Sam looks wary.

“You mean - to break up with you? Of course not. He’s an idiot if he thinks he can do better.”

“No, I mean... Do you think I’m...ruined, for love?”

Sam looks alarmed. He reaches out and grasps Blaine’s shoulder, as if he can stop the thought before it grows, with no more than the anchor of his hand.

“Blaine. No. Of course not, don’t be stupid. You said yourself that he was just jealous. He’s a stubborn asshole who couldn’t let go of a teenage grudge. You can’t let him mess with your head.”

“I know. I just - what if he’s right? At least a little bit. What if that one shot at love is the only one I get, and I blew it? It’s like those guys at the reunion, you know? Those hockey players who were on top of the world in high school and then just...never got out and, like, knocked up their girlfriends and developed beer bellies. They had their shot at greatness, and they wasted it.”

“You’re not, like, a love Lima loser, if that’s what you mean.”

Blaine snorts out a laugh.

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“I mean it. Kurt is in your past, Sebastian is a douche, and you’ve been on, what, two dates since he broke up with you? I wouldn’t throw in the towel just yet.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I am. There is no way you, of all people, don’t find love. It wouldn’t make sense.”

Blaine smiles, warm and shaky.

“Thanks, man.”

“Brittany thinks so, too.”

“She does?”

“You know how she’s a little bit psychic?”

He waits for Blaine to nod. To Blaine’s credit, only a hint of amusement shines through in the slight, sardonic quirk of his lip.

“She told me she saw it.”

“Did she say anything about how I meet this mystery man? I’ve never actually had a relationship that didn’t start with a show choir rivalry.”

Sam snorts.

“She wasn’t clear on that. Have you tried online dating yet? It’s actually kind of awesome.”

Blaine grimaces, echoing Kurt’s feelings on the matter perfectly.

“I don’t know, that’s...not really my thing.”

“You may have to resort to letting your friends set you up.”

“Do you even know any other gay guys?”

“Well, no, but Rachel - ”

“Would _you_ want Rachel setting you up?”

Sam shudders.

“Point taken. Maybe tonight, then? There’s bound to be some cute guys there.”

“Maybe. I probably know them all.”

That gloom creeps back in. Sam notices, too.

“You want to sing about it?” he says, gently.

Blaine smiles, that big, shining smile that’s so grateful it makes Kurt ache.

“How about something a little lighter?”

There’s a twinkle to his eye that Kurt hasn’t seen yet today, and, God, he’s missed it.

“What did you have in mind?”

Blaine reaches over to his iPod dock and scrolls around until he finds what he was looking for. Sam laughs.

“Nice.”

The opening notes to “Jingle Bell Rock” ring out in the quiet space, and the two of them spring off the couch. They trade off solo lines and sing together at random, and the way they’re moving could only generously be called dancing. It’s loose and happy, and the faces they’re pulling make them laugh at each other so hard that Kurt can’t help but want to join in.

He doesn’t, of course. He can’t.

They collapse back onto the couch when it’s over, careful not to crush poor Matilda.

“That was just what I needed,” sighs Blaine happily.

“What else is a best friend for?”

The spirit touches Kurt’s arm.

“Come. We have more to see.”

Kurt turns to him reluctantly. The spirit’s eyes catch the light and throw it back. They glow from within. And yet, they could never be as bright as Blaine’s are when he looks at Sam like that, with all of the affection in his heart.

Kurt nods.

It’s that flying sensation again, and it lasts so long, this time, that Kurt’s insides start to churn. When they touch down again, they’re in Ohio. Kurt has been here more in the past 24 hours than he has in the last five years combined.

It’s nighttime, and the house is warm again. The tree is big and awkwardly balanced, leaning a little to the left, toward the window. The lights are slung haphazardly around the branches, the ornaments uneven, the star crooked.

“Homely, isn’t it?” says the spirit. His tone is jovial rather than disdainful, but Kurt feels his hackles rise nonetheless.

“I think it’s nice.”

The spirit snorts.

“No, you don’t. You’re itching to get in there and rearrange everything. It’s driving you crazy that you can’t.”

Kurt opens his mouth, closes it again. He looks at the tree.

“It is a little...sloppy.”

“Finn never did have your touch, did he?”

The smile on his face is too knowing to be familiar. Kurt turns away.

He becomes suddenly aware of a delicious smell in the air. He follows his nose to the dining room.

The table is set for two, with Carole’s good china and the cloth napkins. A fat candle burns in the center, casting a lovely glow over the meal she’s laying out. There’s a small roast ham, a mound of mashed potatoes, and a small bowl of roasted vegetables that Kurt knows Finn will never touch.

Carole is grayer than the last time Kurt saw her. The lines are deeper in her face. Finn ambles in from the kitchen with a bottle of what appears to be mediocre wine, wearing a Christmas sweater and sweatpants. Some things never change.

“It really is a shame that Marcy couldn’t join us,” she’s saying. “I’ll be sure to make her up a plate and leave it in the oven to keep warm.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that. I know she was sad to miss this.”

“Well, it’s smart of her to volunteer for holidays now, so that she has some credit stored up when the baby comes.”

“That’s right,” murmurs Kurt. “I forgot all about that.”

The spirit chuckles.

“Why wouldn’t you? You haven’t seen them since the wedding.”

Kurt says nothing.

Finn pours out two glasses of wine. Carole raises hers in a toast.

“To family. To those who are here and those who are not.”

“To Dad.”

“To Marcy.”

“To Burt.”

“To Kurt.”

Finn sighs.

“Yeah. To Kurt.”

“To those we’ve lost,” finishes Carole.

They exchange sad smiles and clink their glasses. There’s a moment of quiet while Carole serves the ham.

“Have you heard from him at all?” says Finn.

“Not since that e-mail on Thanksgiving. I called him and left a voicemail. Let him know he’s more than welcome for New Year’s if he can make it out.”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that, Finn. He may still have a change of heart.”

“I don’t know if he even thinks of us as family anymore.”

“Well, we are. Nothing could possibly change that.”

“I’m not the one you need to convince.”

“Yes, well. Maybe we should think about making a visit to New York soon. Make it easier for him.”

Finn smiles.

“Yeah. That’d be good. We could see Rachel, too, and Blaine. They both promised me free tickets.”

“We’ll plan it soon.”

The spirit lays a hand on Kurt’s shoulder.

“So soon?” murmurs Kurt. It feels like they’ve only just arrived.

“Come along.”

The smile he gives is kind, and Kurt nods. They fly away.

When they land once more, it’s in a room that Kurt is certain he’s never seen before. It’s the living room of a tiny one-bedroom apartment, barely big enough to fit the folding table that’s been set up in the center. There are chairs crammed tightly around it, fitting what appears to be a family of six into a space that would be tight for four. Dinner has been eaten, the wine drunk, and the room is filled with laughter. Their conversation is mixed and muddled, voices overlapping voices as they interrupt and talk across each other.

Suddenly, Kurt realizes that Krista, his assistant, is at the center. She has her head thrown back in mirth. It’s no wonder Kurt didn’t recognize her.

“Krista couldn’t make it home to Michigan for Christmas this year because her boss wouldn’t give her the time off. Her sisters pooled their savings and rented a van to drive the family out here as an early Christmas present for their parents.”

Kurt swallows.

“Where are they staying?”

“Krista offered to pay for a couple of hotel rooms, but her parents wouldn’t let her. They know she’s saving for grad school.”

“So...”

“Her parents will take the bedroom. The sisters will camp out in here. They don’t mind, though - they like to stay close when they get the chance to see her. It happens so rarely, after all.”

“Alright, fine. I _get_ it.”

“Do you?”

Something in his mild tone makes Kurt look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are blazing. Kurt could believe, in this moment, that the fire in him could break through his skin and take Kurt under.

Kurt feels himself shrink back, instinctively. He stops, straightens his shoulders, doesn’t let himself look away.

“Yes.”

The spirit smiles.

“Good.”

He takes Kurt’s hand. Kurt closes his eyes.

When he opens them, it’s to bright lights and the buzz of chatter and laughter, loud above the tinkling of piano keys.

The infamous party, he realizes almost immediately. It’s in a spacious apartment that must be Rachel’s, given the familiar golden star framed and hung proudly over the mantel. It was a Christmas gift from Finn their second year in New York.

Kurt came here once for a dinner party he couldn’t think of an excuse to avoid. Rachel had been very eager to display her newfound success and her brand-new marriage in one fell swoop.

The marriage didn’t last, but the apartment is in it for the long haul.

Now it’s decorated with a mix of festive holiday themes, from evergreen boughs to decorative menorahs. The pianist is playing soft background music on a makeshift stage in the living room. A table off the kitchen is covered in appetizers and wine bottles in various stages of empty. Rachel doesn’t believe in hard liquor at elegant parties, Kurt remembers. He himself has long since gotten over that particular pretension.

“Blaine!” he hears, in Rachel’s brand of shriek. His head turns to follow it, and he finds Rachel rushing to the door, where Blaine and Sam have just made their entrance. Kurt picks his way carefully through the crowd, until he discovers, by happy accident, that he can pass through the guests as easily as if they were made of mist.

“Neat trick, isn’t it?” says the spirit. He winks.

“Are you doing that?”

“In a way. You aren’t actually _here_ , are you?”

Kurt rolls his eyes.

Rachel has taken their coats and is hanging them in the closet by the time Kurt reaches them.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she’s saying. “I was starting to sense that the crowd was getting impatient.”

“You could have started without me.”

“Don’t be silly! You’re one of the _hosts_.”

“Sorry, Rachel, really. We got held up making a bed for Matilda.”

Rachel’s furrowed brow could be the dictionary picture of confusion.

“The kitten I bought him for Christmas,” adds Sam, before she has the chance to open her mouth.

Her eyes go big and shiny.

“Oh! Is she completely adorable?”

Blaine nods, positively beaming.

“Completely. You’ll have to come over soon to play with her.”

“Of course.”

Blaine rubs his hands together.

“So.” He offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

She laughs, takes it, and practically drags him to the stage. She makes a beeline for the microphone, a golden sparkly thing that makes Kurt shake his head fondly. She clears her throat.

“Good evening, everyone,” she says grandly. She waits for the chatter to die down and the room’s eyes to turn to her. “Welcome to the Berry-Anderson singing holiday extravaganza.”

“We’d like to thank you all for coming here instead of your local Chinese dining establishment,” adds Blaine. “The food may not be better, but we hope the company makes up for it.”

“Bruce, here - wave, Bruce - will be here for us all evening. He has assured me that his repertoire is wide enough to accommodate even the most eclectic tastes of our guests, so don’t hesitate to sing whatever your heart may desire.”

“As long as it isn’t depressing.”

“Yes. Sad songs are strongly discouraged, no matter how moving and emotionally appropriate they may be.” She shoots a look at Blaine that manages to be only slightly bitter. “My co-host and I have prepared something to start us off. It won’t be holiday-themed, as you all got a taste of that during our appearance on yesterday’s Today Show - available now on YouTube - but we hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

“We think it’s a message you’ll all appreciate.”

Rachel beams her brightest show smile and points to Bruce without even a glance.

“Hit it.”

Kurt doesn’t recognize the melody right away, but when he does, he can’t help but snort his disbelief.

“Appropriate, don’t you think?” comments the spirit.

“Only them.”

Rachel starts them off, slow and rich in her lower register. Her voice has matured since Kurt last heard it.

 _At first I was afraid, I was petrified, kept thinking I could never live without you by my side_...

Blaine takes over on the next line, both hands on the microphone as he croons out the only song truly appropriate for today.

... _But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew strong, and I learned to get along_...

They trade lines as the song builds, until, finally, the chorus hits and their voices flow together in effortless harmony. Their chemistry is as magnetic as ever, and their voices even more complementary than they were the first time they sang together, 16 and drunk in Rachel’s basement.

They finish to well-deserved applause.

Blaine grins and takes the microphone one last time.

“And now, the stage is yours.”

Someone Kurt doesn’t know but thinks may have played Rachel’s sister in the show that won her her first Tony rushes to take the invitation. She’s just starting a decent rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when Blaine and Rachel make it off the stage. Kurt follows them.

“You were magnificent as ever,” Blaine is saying. His face is alight, his expression teasing, and he’s never looked more like the spirit at Kurt’s side than he does right now.

“Why thank you. You weren’t too bad yourself.”

“Show me where to find a drink?”

She complies, leading him by the arm to the refreshment table.

As he pours himself a glass of Kurt’s favorite white, Rachel leans in close and asks, “Have you heard from...” She bites her lip, like she doesn’t want to say the name. Blaine grimaces, tight and almost imperceptible.

“No. I haven’t heard from Kurt.”

She deflates.

“I really thought this might be the year.”

“Well, the party’s only just begun. He might still surprise us.”

She gives a small smile and raises her glass.

“Here’s hoping.”

Blaine clinks his glass against hers and takes a long drink.

“In the meantime,” says Rachel, a new gleam in her eye, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Blaine shoots her a wary look, but she either doesn’t notice or deeply doesn’t care, because she’s leading him across the room without a backwards glance.

Kurt doesn’t follow. He watches, carefully, from across the room. The guy is tall and lightly muscular, the lean body of a dancer. He’s probably in his early thirties, moderately handsome with wavy brown hair that he’s used only minimal product to control. His face practically lights up when Rachel makes the introduction. He can’t take his eyes off Blaine, who’s smiling a tad flirtatiously. The guy looks struck, like his breath has been taken completely away.

Rachel steps back and smiles warmly, admiring her handiwork as the two of them hit it off.

The spirit takes pity on him.

“I think maybe you’ve had enough.”

Hearing Blaine’s voice in his ear at that exact moment is too much, far too much. Blaine, who won’t abandon him, no matter how hard Kurt tries, who believes in him, who still keeps his heart wide open for those who’ll look to see it, even after every bruise and break. Blaine, who can level him with a look.

There was a reason the spirit chose Blaine’s face to show Kurt tonight.

“You understand now, don’t you?” he says, as if he could read Kurt’s mind.

“He turns me vulnerable,” whispers Kurt.

“Yes. And everything else, too.”

He grasps Kurt’s hand without warning, and, suddenly, they’re back in the overwhelming quiet of Kurt’s bedroom.

“It is time for me to say goodbye.”

Kurt’s heart gives a whine that he ignores. He looks the spirit in the eye and nods. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks closer.

His candlelit skin has begun to dim, like the wick has burned down to the nub. His eyes have gone ash-gray.

“Are you okay?”

He smiles sadly.

“I only get one day.”

Kurt nods his understanding. He hesitates.

“Thank you for spending it with me.”

The spirit smiles, an oddly sweet little thing.

“ _Remember_.”

And then, like that, he flickers out, and he’s gone. The distant wisp of a church bell follows in his wake. This time, words form themselves to the melody in Kurt’s mind.

 _You think I’m pretty without any make-up on_...

It, too, dies away.

Kurt is asleep again in seconds.


	4. Chapter 4

The cold is what wakes him. It is utterly dark, utterly quiet, and he’s shivering in his sleep. He opens his eyes and curls deeply into his blankets. He gathers them close to his body. He doesn’t want to leave the meager protection of warmth offered to him by his bed, but he feels somehow compelled. There is something out there, in the world beyond his door, that calls his attention.

He bundles up and slips into his slippers. He turns the knob and braces himself.

As expected, there is a figure in his living room. Light filters in from the window, streetlight and moonlight, and the faint colored glow of Christmas lights across the way, but the room itself is dark. The figure is dark, too. He’s draped in a hood that hides his face. He stands utterly still and silent. The cold seems to come from him.

“Hello?” calls Kurt, tentative, as he approaches.

The spirit says nothing.

“Who are you? I mean, you’re the Ghost of Christmas Future, obviously, but who do you look like?”

Still nothing.

“Okay. Guess we’re not talking, then. That rules out Rachel.”

The spirit reaches out a black-gloved hand.

Kurt sighs.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The jump is sudden. There is no melting, no flying, just the blink of an eye between this place and the next.

It’s Blaine’s apartment. The furniture configuration has changed and the tree has new, multi-colored lights this year, but the room is otherwise the same.

Cooper is lounging in the armchair. His hair is starting to show signs of graying at the temples, and his handsomeness has turned rugged over the years, with sharper, deeper lines chiseling his face, but his eyes are just as blue.

Blaine is on the couch, leaning into someone’s side. It takes Kurt just a moment to place him, even though he’s only seen him once. It was very recent, after all.

Blaine is snug against the man’s body, their dips and curves fitting together like puzzle pieces. He’s looking at something in his lap, and the man is looking at him, just as adoring and quite a bit more knowing than he did when they first met.

“Don’t you think you should wait until Mom gets back? You know she won’t like you doing this without her.” Cooper smirks, betraying the tease for what it is. Blaine shoots him a look.

“No. You do not get to enjoy this just because you’ve been through it already. You’re supposed to be _helping_ me.”

“What do you think I’m doing? Do you really think I _need_ a dozen eggs on Christmas Day? I made Katrina promise to give us an hour, at least. Devon’s in on it, too.”

Blaine’s eyebrows lift.

“He is?”

“He’s been instructed to feel a keen sense of longing for the swings as soon as they come across the playground.”

“Did you coach him?”

Cooper waggles his eyebrows.

“Oh, I would expect to see some pointing.”

Blaine laughs.

“Thanks, Coop. It means a lot that you’d do that for me.”

“Hey, don’t thank me. The boy needs practice if he’s going to get into the biz like his old man.”

The man, Blaine’s boyfriend, presumably, smiles and rubs his hand over the bare skin of Blaine’s arm.

“Let’s address some wedding invitations, shall we?”

Blaine looks up at him with a soft, affectionate smile. He presses a kiss to his lips.

Kurt’s stomach plummets. He turns to the spirit.

“Is that enough?”

The spirit - surprise, surprise - says nothing. He points one long, slender finger to the scene in front of them. There’s an improbably large stack of completed invitations already on the table.

“How did - ” Kurt cuts himself off. “Why bother?” he mutters. He turns his attention reluctantly back to the scene in front of him.

“Kurt Hummel?” he hears. He almost jumps out of his skin. Can they _see_ him?

It’s the fiancé, and he’s looking at an invitation that Blaine has just added to the stack. His brow is furrowed and his head cocked in confusion.

“Who is that?”

Blaine looks up.

“An old friend.”

“How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“Because he’s a jackass.”

That’s from Cooper, and even though Kurt understands why Cooper of all people might say that, it still hurts. Blaine turns to glare at him.

“Cooper.”

“Okay, fine. He’s not a jackass. He’s woefully misunderstood.”

Blaine magnanimously ignores Cooper’s sarcasm and turns back to his fiancé.

“I’ve known him since high school. We were best friends for a long time.” Cooper is practically shooting lasers of skepticism out of his eyes. Blaine can’t help but glance at him. “He was my first boyfriend, too. We went through a lot together, and I wouldn’t feel right not inviting him to my wedding.”

“They haven’t seen each other in years.”

“Coop.” He turns his full attention to the fiancé, who’s wearing the most neutral expression he can conjure. “He’s a very busy person. We e-mail sometimes. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Okay,” says the fiancé, rubbing a soothing hand down Blaine’s thigh. “I just figured I should know who he is, if he’s coming to our wedding.”

“Oh, he won’t be coming,” puts in Cooper.

Blaine’s smile is sad at best.

“No,” he agrees. “He probably won’t.”

It isn’t rare that Kurt has wished for the ability to jump into the scene he’s witnessing and change it for the better, but this time is one of the strongest. He’s never, ever wanted Blaine to look like that because of him. Not even when he was 18 and learning for the first time that love isn’t a thing that can conquer all obstacles.

He’d reach out if he could, and touch. He’d tell Blaine how grateful he is that he hasn’t given up and promise to _be_ there from now on. He’d pull Blaine to him and feel the contours of his body as they lock into his as easy as a song.

But he can’t.

The spirit’s hand is cold, even through the leather of his glove. Still, he says nothing. In the next blink, they’re somewhere new.

It’s a different apartment, bigger - gigantic, actually, for New York standards - and probably brighter in the daytime. There’s a picture window in the living room whose view of the skyline is so gorgeous that Kurt knows immediately how expensive the rent must be. Matilda, fully grown, is curled up on Blaine’s old armchair. Two men are standing by the entrance, having just come in, taking off their outer layers and chatting comfortably. Kurt doesn’t have to look to know who they are, but he does anyway.

“...and his face when Katrina brought out the flambé! He was literally seconds away from calling the fire department.”

Blaine’s face is open and shining with laughter that his fiancé (husband?) doesn’t seem to share.

“Yeah, he’s a pretty priceless kid.”

“God, yeah. He takes after Cooper, don’t you think? His little face is so...expressive.” He snorts. “I thought he was going keel over with joy when he saw the mound of presents Santa brought him.”

“I have a feeling that your brother may be spoiling him.”

“Not to mention Mom and Dad. He is the only grandkid, after all.”

His smile has a bitter twist this time. The probably-husband-by-now slips his hands around Blaine’s waist to the small of his back and pulls him closer.

“Don’t let them get to you. It’s our life, not theirs.”

Blaine looks away.

“I know that. I mean, it’s practically my philosophy of life.”

“Baby, listen.” He waits for Blaine’s eyes to come back to his. When they do, Kurt can see from where he’s standing that the shutters have come down. “You’re all the family I need.”

He means it to be sweet and comforting. That’s not the way Blaine takes it.

“Josh. We said we weren’t going to do this today.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything.”

Blaine’s jaw tightens. He pulls away, moves to sit on the couch. He hugs his arms wearily to his stomach.

“Well, maybe we should. It’s out, now. I’m tired of having this thing between us and always having to pretend it isn’t there. It is, and we should talk about it like the rational adults that we are.”

Josh sits cautiously, at the other end of the couch.

“I don’t know what good you think is going to come out of this, Blaine. You know how I feel.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know how _I_ feel.”

The argument is unbearably familiar. Kurt can practically _see_ the broken sharp shards of the past digging into Blaine as he tries desperately to navigate the two of them to safer waters.

Josh doesn’t make Kurt’s mistakes.

“Tell me, then.”

“I want a family.”

“You have one, don’t you? _I’m_ your family. I thought that was the point of this marriage.”

“It is. You are. But I want to raise a child, Josh. I made that clear to you from the start.”

“I thought - ”

“You told me you wanted to _wait_ , and I believed you. I let myself make all of these plans and dream all of these _dreams_ , and then you drop this bombshell and tell me that you were _lying_? I really don’t know what you want me to do here.”

“I never lied to you. I wasn’t _ready_. I’m still not ready.”

“No, of course you’re not, because you’ll never _be_ ready. You told me yourself - you hate kids, you’ve never wanted any for yourself, you always thought that being gay would make that okay.”

“Blaine, I just want _you_ \- is that really so bad?”

Blaine sighs.

“No, it’s not.”

Josh moves closer, takes Blaine’s hand in his. It stays limp.

He opens his mouth - Blaine cuts him off.

“But this isn’t something that I’m willing to compromise on.”

Josh gapes at him.

“What are you saying?”

Blaine starts to speak, then bites his lip.

“I’m saying we need to make some decisions. That’s all.”

“ _Decisions_? Blaine, I made my decision the day I asked you to marry me - hell, the day I met you. I want you and everything that’s yours for the rest of my life. That’s it. I _love_ you.”

Blaine laughs, bitter and rough with scars.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love is rarely enough.”

“What are you - ” He stops. His face is written all over with panic. “Okay, you win. If a kid is something you need, then I’d be willing to talk about it.”

Blaine reaches out a hand and cups his husband’s jaw in his palm. He runs a soothing thumb over his cheek.

“No. You shouldn’t have to compromise either, not when it comes to this.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Small, raw, eyes wide and scared.

Blaine keeps his gaze steady.

“I don’t know.”

There’s a beat, then two. Blaine opens his arms and Josh rushes to snuggle down against his chest, clutching into him like he’s afraid Blaine will walk away at any moment.

“It’s okay,” says Blaine, softly. “I love you, I swear. Tonight, I’m still yours.”

Kurt feels the hand at his elbow and flinches. He wasn’t ready to go, but then, he’s never really had a say in any of this.

They’re outside this time. The snow underfoot is old and slushy, but, thank God, doesn’t soak into Kurt’s slippers. They’re in front of a house that Kurt would be more inclined to call a mansion, with little white lights trimming the edges of the roof. There’s a man trudging up to the front stoop. Even from the back, even in the dark, Kurt knows that it’s Blaine. His hair is loose and curly, almost wild, as if the wind or someone’s hand has been running through it.

He’s rung the doorbell by the time Kurt catches up to him. It’s been several years since the last Christmas, and Kurt can see them in the deepening laugh lines around Blaine’s eyes. Tonight, he looks...sad.

It takes only moments for the door to open. On the other side is Rachel, beaming smile collapsing quickly to worry when she sees Blaine.

“Come in, come in,” she says, stepping aside to allow him passage. “Have you eaten? I bet you haven’t. I saved you a portion of lasagna just in case.”

She takes his coat and his scarf and hangs them in the hall closet.

“That would be great, Rach. We were in the middle of breakfast when I got the call.”

She nods and scurries to the kitchen, calling out, “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Blaine walks into what appears to be a living room, littered with toys fit for a young child. Blaine picks up a well-worn stuffed cat and smiles fondly. He settles wearily into the couch cushions and closes his eyes, still holding the poor, pathetic cat.

Rachel is out only moments later, a steaming plate of lasagna and a glass of red wine in hand. She places them on the coffee table in front of Blaine. He opens his eyes and smiles, gratefully.

“Thanks. Is she down for the night?”

“In bed no later than 8, just like you said. I had to sing about five goodnight songs before she’d agree to sleep. It seems that I don’t have your touch.”

“It’s tradition. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

She smiles. It quickly fades.

“So. What happened?”

Blaine sighs, deep and heavy, and closes his eyes briefly.

“Appendicitis. His appendix burst, about three days ago, they think. The police found him last night, when his neighbor called in a complaint about the noise coming from his bedroom. His alarm was apparently very loud.”

“Oh, God.”

Kurt has a horrible, sinking feeling that he knows exactly who they’re talking about. He pushes it aside - he can’t think about that. He watches in silence.

“Thanks for taking care of the calls, by the way. They got in this afternoon.”

“Have...arrangements been made?”

“He wanted to be cremated. They’re taking him back with them. So he can be with his parents.”

Until now, his tone has managed to remain detached. His voice cracks. He closes his eyes tightly, but he can’t stop the leak of tears out the corners.

“Oh, Blaine.”

Rachel gathers him close in her small arms. She’s blinking back her own tears.

“I just keep thinking. If I’d just _tried_ harder...”

His voice is barely audible, muffled by Rachel’s shoulder.

“No. It was his choice. You couldn’t make it for him, or change it. We were the best friends to him we could be.”

He sniffs, straightens a little.

“I know. It’s just - he didn’t have anyone else, Rachel. _I_ was the one they called.”

“I know.”

“I just wish...” He trails off. She rubs his arm comfortingly.

“How was Carole? And...”

“She’s the strongest person I know. And you know how Finn is - he’s always been at his best during a crisis.”

“We’ll have to visit, soon. Are they having a service?”

“They decided to wait until after the holidays.”

“Everyone will come. We’ll make sure of it,” she says, fiercely.

Blaine smiles.

“Yeah.”

They lean into each other and sit in silence, Blaine’s food going cold in front of them.

Kurt isn’t sure how much time has passed. More, probably, than it seems. Finally, Rachel stirs.

“Will you stay here tonight?”

Blaine hesitates. He glances up, toward the second story. Rachel bites her lip.

“I’d rather not be alone,” she admits. “This house always feels so big when the kids are with Mark.”

Blaine’s eyes soften.

“Of course I will. I’d rather not cart Maiah all the way home if I can help it, anyway.”

Rachel smiles, relieved.

“I’ll go make up the guest room for you.”

Blaine nods.

“I think I’ll go say goodnight. I promised she’d see me before Christmas was over.”

The spirit’s finger brushes slightly against Kurt’s, and he jumps, startled anew at the chill. The next thing he knows, they’re with Blaine in a room that can only be a child’s. A mosaic of stars glows on the ceiling. A nightlight in the shape of a cartoon character that Kurt doesn’t recognize gives the room a warm light.

Blaine kneels by the bed, where a head of dark hair is turned toward the wall. He brushes a strand of hair off of her cheek with one gentle finger.

She’s a beautiful child, chubby-cheeked with long, dark lashes.

Blaine watches her for a few moments, expression full of love.

“Maiah,” he whispers. “Wake up, sweetpea.”

She stirs, blinking awake, a frown on her face until her eyes light on Blaine.

“Daddy!”

Suddenly awake, she throws her arms around his neck, dragging him down at an angle Kurt can tell must be hell on his back.

“Are we going home?”

“Not yet. We’re going to stay until morning. Did you have a good Christmas with Auntie Rachel?”

She makes a face.

“She doesn’t even have a Christmas tree, Daddy.”

“That’s true.”

“And she doesn’t know how to make Christmas bread.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow instead. Santa doesn’t have to know.”

She giggles, expression suddenly brighter.

“We played Princess and the Pea five times! Auntie Rachel is a really good princess.”

“I bet.”

“Mr. Calico was the Prince, because you weren’t here.”

“Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that. Will I have to fight him to get my job back?”

“Maybe. But I think he likes being Queen better anyway.”

Blaine smiles.

“That’s good.”

She yawns hugely, displaying all of her little teeth.

“I guess all that playing wore you out, huh?”

“Nuh-uh, I could stay up lots longer.”

“Long enough for a goodnight song?”

She nods vigorously. Blaine laughs.

“Alright, then, which one do you want?”

“Can we do ‘Frosty’? Auntie Rachel didn’t know all of the words.”

“‘Frosty’ it is. Ready?”

“Ready!”

He starts off softly, sweetly, eyebrows expressive and silly as he acts out the lyrics. Maiah joins in for the parts she knows and watches, grinning, for the parts she doesn’t. She’s settled back against her pillows by the end, eyes starting to droop.

“One more?” she murmurs when he’s finished.

“Alright. Last song, then sleep.”

It’s “Jingle Bells” that he chooses. He sings it like a lullaby. She’s asleep by the end of the first chorus.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, smooths a hand over her hair.

“Goodnight.”

God, if only Kurt could soothe some of the sadness from his eyes. If he could just reach out...

The spirit grasps his shoulder, hard and unforgiving.

They’re in a cemetery. Kurt knows this place. He used to visit every year. No part of him wants to be here now. He looks to the spirit for guidance. The spirit points.

Kurt looks, but he can’t see anything of significance. He starts walking in that direction, winding through the gravestones, feet crunching the frozen-over snow. The light is already starting to fade.

Eventually, he hears it. Part of him knew he would. His pace quickens as he follows his ears and, finally, his eyes.

They’re at a grave. It’s fairly new, from the look of it, stone bright and fresh compared to the weathered markers that surround him. It’s been placed under a tree, a big, old thing whose leaves have long-since fallen. When he gets closer, Kurt can see the flowers clutched tight in Blaine’s hand. Yellow and red roses.

They’re singing, of course, in a sweet, sad harmony that Kurt was never meant to hear.

... _Take these broken wings and learn to fly_...

 _...Blackbird, fly into the light of the dark black night_...

The song ends too soon, echoing, almost, into the still air around them. They lean into each other, Rachel’s mascara starting to run in rivulets down her face. Blaine breaks free. He places the flowers, gently, just in front of the gravestone. Kurt can see old tear tracks drying to his skin.

“Goodbye,” he murmurs. “I hope Rachel is right. I hope you’re all somewhere you can be together. I hope you’re at peace.”

He touches two fingers to his lips and presses them against the stone.

Rachel approaches, takes his hand. He rises.

They walk away.

“No,” says Kurt. He turns to the spirit. He’s _done_. “No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. None of this is how it’s supposed to be. This can’t - you’ve got to give me the chance to _change_ things. I need that much. Why would you _torture_ me like this if I couldn’t change anything?”

The spirit remains impassive, still. His dark hood, almost shimmering in the low light, waves lightly in the breeze.

“Answer me!”

Nothing.

“Come on! Tell me the _truth_! Show me your face, at least.”

Kurt doesn’t think - he moves before he can. He lunges forward, grabs the spirit’s hood. The spirit makes no effort to stop him. Kurt jerks it back, then stands, frozen, in shock.

It’s his own face he sees staring back at him.

Eyes completely void of warmth, a mirthless smile pulling his lips tight. His skin, so pale as to be almost translucent, emanating cold that Kurt can feel in his lungs.

“Is this what you wanted?”

It’s his own voice, and it makes his hair stand on end.

“No,” he whispers.

He steps back in an instinctive attempt to escape, but he must have misjudged the distance, because he trips, stumbles, falls backwards over his own gravestone. He hits the cold, hard ground with an audible smack. He opens his eyes, tries to keep them open, but all he can see before the blackness takes him under is the red and yellow blur of Blaine’s roses.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, when he wakes, it is morning.

The light in his room is pale and natural. He can hear the sounds of city streets outside his window. Audrey is curled up on the bed next to him.

He sits up, quickly, puts a hand to the back of his head. Nothing. No pain. No bumps.

If it was a dream, it was a realistic one, but Kurt struggles to think of a better explanation.

No matter. Whether it was the Ghosts of Christmas or his own subconscious that did it, he feels like a new man this morning. He has a chance. He _can_ change things, if he wants.

Something occurs to him. Oh, God. He grabs his phone from where it lay on his bedside table.

 _December 25th, 2023_.

He closes his eyes and sighs, relieved. He didn’t miss it.

He practically jumps out of bed, jostling the mattress so hard that Audrey wakes up and meows in protest.

“Sorry,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got a lot to do today.” He very nearly skips out of the room, leaving Audrey with a pat between the ears that she doesn’t seem to entirely appreciate.

He breezes through his morning routine, then settles down on thecouch for his first order of business. He does something that may be borderline unethical and goes into the personal information he’s stored for Krista on his computer. He figures out where she lives, does a quick Google search to find the closest, nicest hotels, and calls each and every one until he strikes gold - there’s a new bed and breakfast not three blocks away with excellent reviews and room enough for five adults on Christmas day. He makes the reservation and tells them to call Krista’s number to confirm.

He calls Carole next. She’s surprised and delighted to hear from him, and it isn’t exactly easy, talking to her on today of all days, but he fights through the urge to make an excuse and hang up.

“I’m so happy you called, honey,” she says near the end, smile nearly audible. “You’re still family, you know.”

Kurt swallows down the lump of emotion that’s suddenly formed in his throat.

“I do know.”

He exits the conversation with reassurances that he’s spending the day with loved ones and a promise to do his best to come out for New Year’s.

He buys a ticket as soon as they hang up.

And then, suddenly, his phone is ringing, and this would normally be cause for an eye-roll of epic proportions, because the list of people who have his private number is vanishingly short, but today it sends a shiver of excitement through his stomach.

It’s Krista.

“How did you know?” she asks, awe warring with confusion in her voice.

“I...had a hunch.”

She thanks him profusely, still cautious, until Kurt can’t take it anymore.

“It was a Christmas gift, Krista. Just...accept it.”

“I thought you...didn’t believe in Christmas.”

“I’ve had a change of heart. In fact, why don’t you take tomorrow off, too, so that you can spend some time with your family? How long are they here?”

“Um. Until Friday, Mr. Hummel.”

“Alright. You haven’t taken a vacation day since I hired you. I don’t want to see you in before Monday at the earliest. Fully paid, of course. Family is important.”

“I - Mr. Hummel, that’s - ”

“ _Accept_ it, Krista. Before I change my mind.”

He means this last teasingly, but it does the trick. Krista thanks him, one last time, and hangs up with a happy, disbelieving “See you Monday!”

It’s midday, by now, and Kurt has yet to eat. His stomach reminds him, loudly, and he scrounges together a meal from the contents of his cupboards. Too keyed up to sit around and wait, he sets out to find a store somewhere, somehow, that will allow him to do some very-last-minute gift shopping.

He ends up in Chinatown.

It’s fun, picking things out for other people. He loses track of time, wandering through the stores and imagining the looks of surprise and pleasure on their faces. He even manages to uncover a few treasures - a decorative fan patterned in stars for Rachel, a delicate ceramic tea kettle for Carole, a gorgeous bamboo picture frame for Blaine, and a set of wooden block toys for Finn’s expanding family. It’s entirely exhilarating, the way he remembers it being when he was 17.

He spends the rest of the afternoon wandering around the city, window shopping, enjoying the holiday displays for the first time in years. The streets aren’t empty, but there isn’t the harried bustle that Kurt is used to at this time of day, either. There are a few families out and about, parents and small children and grandparents, all smiling and wearing their most festive clothes. He doesn’t sneer at them, today. In fact, he might actually be creepier, grinning as he is from ear to ear as he nods to passersby. He can’t help it - he feels so light he could float away.

Finally, it’s time to get ready for the party.

Armed with his gifts (wrapped as nicely as he could manage in five-year-old paper and ribbon from his scrap box) and a bottle of white that he’d been saving to celebrate the Vogue deal, he stands in his best holiday finery in front of his own closed door.

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and turns the knob.

He won’t turn back now. He can’t, knowing what he’d been so willing to give up.

The cab ride isn’t long, but it’s enough to turn him restless. He takes out his phone, fingers fidgeting without his consent, and remembers. He opens Rachel’s e-mail and, this time, opens the link.

It’s Rachel and Blaine, bundled up on the Today Show outdoor performance stage. The music starts up, upbeat and somehow melancholy at the same time.

The song is one that Kurt has heard but doesn’t actually know. Listening to the lyrics, it’s clear why Rachel sent him the link. His throat tightens.

It’s Blaine’s verse that makes the first tear spill.

 _They're singing deck the halls, but it's not like Christmas at all. I remember when you were here, all the fun we had last year_...

There’s a moment when he looks into the camera, just briefly, and Kurt can hardly breathe.

This is real, after all, not just a shadow conjured in the dead of night by the deepest wishes of his heart. This was recorded yesterday.

His nerves settle, after the video fades to black.

This is _right_.

The cab stops, and Kurt hastily wipes at his cheeks and thrusts a wad of cash at the driver. He practically runs up the stoop to the front buzzer.

It’s Rachel who answers.

“I’m here for the party,” he says, hesitant now that he can hear her voice.

There’s a pause.

“Kurt?”

“I come bearing gifts.”

“Kurt! You came! Yes, please, come right on up!”

The buzzer rings out, long and enthusiastic, and Kurt pushes through the door before the calm that’s settled over him has a chance to run out.

He knocks, politely, even though he knows the chance is incredibly slim that anyone will hear him, and opens the door. Rachel descends on him immediately.

“Kurt! I’m so glad you came! Merry Christmas!”

She hovers, as if she would go in for a hug if Kurt’s arms weren’t burdened. She’s wearing an outfit he recognizes. He’s seen her wear it before, in a party identical to this one in nearly every way. When she looks at him, this time, she sees him.

“I brought gifts for the host and hostess,” he says. “Where should I...”

Rachel’s eyes light up.

“Oh! Follow me! The wine can go on the table, here - we can always use more, so thank you for that - and the gifts...well, I’ll just take those for now. We can open them when Blaine arrives, if you’d like. He was supposed to be here ages ago, but he’s running late, apparently. Sam is coming with him, so I suspect that’s the source of his tardiness.”

She walks briskly as she talks, weaving around guests and expecting Kurt to follow suit.

God, he’s missed her. It’s only here, now, seeing her smile at him and feeling the way her personality takes up physical space, that he knows how much.

“How are you?” she asks, eyes wide and sincere, once Kurt has set down his parcels and has a glass of wine in hand.

“I’m...happy. Or at least I’m getting there.”

He finds that it’s true.

“Oh, good. I’m so glad for you, Kurt, you can’t know how much we’ve been worrying about you.”

“You don’t have to worry, Rachel. I’m going to be here from now on.”

She beams her brightest, eyes going a little glassy.

“I’m going to hug you now, okay?”

Kurt can’t help the smile that stretches his mouth so wide it hurts his cheeks. Rachel throws herself into his arms.

“Welcome home,” she whispers.

It’s at that moment that the door opens, and Blaine walks through. Sam comes in behind, but Kurt barely notices. Blaine, here, in the same room. Blaine, who’s late because he couldn’t say goodbye to his brand-new ball of kitten.

Rachel lets go at the sound of the door and turns so fast it almost gives Kurt whiplash.

“Wait right here.”

She scurries over to greet them. She gives them each a quick hug hello, then leans in close and says something that, apparently, requires lots of gestures to communicate.

Blaine looks in his direction. His eyes dart, quick and searching, until they find Kurt’s. He smiles in that way brightens everything and everyone around him. Kurt can’t help but smile back, heart tripping in his chest. He gives a small, stupid wave.

As Blaine moves toward him, the crowd seems to part.

“Kurt,” he says, soft and special, when finally he’s near. “You came.”

“I did. I...thought I should be with family, today.”

Blaine grins, like he can’t hold it back anymore. He pulls Kurt in for a tight hug that feels so completely wonderful Kurt doesn’t know how he ever thought he could do without.

“You are, now.”

“I know.”

There’s a delicate cough to his left - Rachel, suddenly at Blaine’s elbow.

“I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure is a beautiful reunion, but we really are shirking our duties, Blaine.”

“Of course.” He looks apologetically at Kurt. “We’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Kurt nods and watches them go, grateful for the chance to get himself under control.

They lean their heads together and whisper for a moment before getting up on stage and making their introductions, just as Kurt saw, to the very last word. Until...

“...we hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

“As a special treat, we’d like to invite an old friend of ours to come up on stage and help us. Kurt?”

His smile is playful, hopeful. Kurt finds himself frozen. It’s been _years_ since he’s sung at all, much less on stage for an audience. He didn’t think he had any music left in him.

Now, he finds himself suddenly filled with a longing he didn’t know he was repressing.

“Maybe some applause will help convince him?”

The crowd claps and cheers, most of them tipsy already, craning their necks to figure out who they’re clapping for.

Kurt lifts his chin and makes his way to the stage. The cheers grow louder as people start to notice. Blaine is practically vibrating with excitement.

“‘I Will Survive,’” he leans in to whisper. “Rachel will start us off and we’ll go from there.”

“Just like old times.”

Blaine just grins.

“Kurt Hummel, ladies and gentlemen,” announces Rachel. She points back to Bruce, at the piano. “Hit it.”

It’s easy, once the music starts. Effortless and exhilarating, like flying. They know each other so well.

Kurt doesn’t want it to ever end, but, like all things, it does.

Blaine stops him with a hand on his arm as they leave the stage.

“I don’t think that counts as our Christmas duet,” he says. There’s something maybe a little bit scared in his eyes, like he thinks Kurt might turn him down.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“That means you still owe me one.”

“Five, actually, if I’ve counted right.”

Blaine’s eyes go bright and playful.

“I think you have.”

“Well, don’t worry. I always pay my debts. And I definitely don’t mean to incur any more.”

“That’s probably smart.”

“I’m nothing if not responsible.”

Blaine bites his lip, glances around the crowded room. His gaze flicks back to Kurt.

“Do you want to maybe grab a bottle and a couple of glasses and take it out to the balcony? We could pick out our setlist, maybe...catch up?”

Kurt nods, heart full.

“I’d like that.”

Blaine smiles.

“Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Merry Christmas.”


	6. Chapter 6

_2024_

Kurt wakes up. It’s a beautiful day.

He knows that not because he can see the window from where his head rests on the pillow, or because the sun is shining in through the curtains that are really more decorative than useful - none of that is true - but because he isn’t alone.

Blaine is turned with his back to Kurt, neck exposed, hair loose. Kurt’s still got an arm draped over his waist. He can feel the expanse of skin that’s covered now by the warm comforter Rachel got him for his last birthday, the rise and fall of Blaine’s ribs as his lungs expand and retract.

He withdraws his arm carefully, enjoying the slow slide of Blaine’s warm flesh against his palm, and leans up on one elbow to look. It doesn’t feel creepy like it should.

Blaine is beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, it isn’t new, but Kurt will never get his fill of the relaxed posture of his mouth or the slight flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks as he starts to stir. Kurt presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Mm?” mumbles Blaine.

“Good morning.”

Blaine smiles, slow and sleepy, as his eyes blink open.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

He leans in for a kiss, resting his weight against Blaine, thrilling at the way his strong arms reach around him and pull him close, thumb stroking at his spine. It’s slow and almost dreamy, the way their mouths move together, a kiss meant for this little bubble they’ve created, where they’re free to savor this old-new thing between them.

They’re interrupted by the sound of scrabbling at the door, punctuated by a chorus of indignant meows and underscored by the jingle of festive bells that Blaine has affixed to Maddie’s collar for the season.

“Guess we should get up,” whispers Blaine, nuzzling into Kurt’s jaw.

Kurt groans in half-hearted protest.

“They have food and water. They’re fine.”

“Our families will be here soon, anyway. Do you really want them to find us like this?”

Kurt grimaces.

“Probably not the best way for them to find out.”

Blaine laughs and frees up a hand to brush back a strand of hair that’s fallen over Kurt’s forehead. He’s not quite meeting Kurt’s eyes.

“Do you think we should tell them?”

Kurt knows what he’s really asking. Kurt’s said it a million times, by now, in the last 24 hours alone, but Blaine won’t really believe him until he’s seen it. They’ve built up this trust between them, painstakingly, together, and they’ll keep building it until there’s no more doubt left at all.

“Of course. You’re _it_ for me, Blaine. Of course I want to tell them.”

He catches Blaine’s hand in his, laces their fingers together. Blaine smiles, heart open in his eyes.

“Okay.”

And this is why Kurt will work every day to put Blaine before everything and everyone else: Kurt sees the future when he smiles. Not the one that still gives him nightmares when he least expects it, no - Kurt sees Christmas duets, wedding bands, a house outside the city with a big backyard and plenty of privacy. He sees a little girl with big, dark eyes who calls him Papa. He sees a life spent together, and holding Blaine’s hand in the retirement home as he blathers on about his high school sweetheart. He sees laughter, and life, and never, ever being alone.

He sees family.


End file.
